


Bus Stop

by indigostohelit



Series: The Road [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Bus Stop, M/M, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:52:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit/pseuds/indigostohelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bus isn't coming, and they have bruises in more places than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bus Stop

The bus isn’t coming. Dave can feel the crisp edges of the two tickets clasped in his fist, the corner poking into the soft part of his palm (and why Egbert trusts him to hold the tickets will always be beyond him, but it wakes up something warm inside him, something that settles in his stomach like a comforting weight).

The bus isn’t coming. They’ve been waiting for half an hour. Their backpacks are on the floor of the bus stop, Dave’s a dusty beige book bag he picked up at some half-assed little excuse for a sale down on Market Street and John’s one of those cheerful turquoise multi-pocket hiking backpacks he probably spent an hour shopping for at Sportsmart, the fucker.

John has all the food (“are you sure six jam sandwiches are going to be enough, Dave?” he asked Dave earlier, all _earnest_ and Dave, six jam sandwiches he asks and Dave just can’t) and a flashlight and one hundred dollars and forty-six cents, about twenty bucks of which is in quarters that John saved up week after week instead of buying ice cream sandwiches in the cafeteria.

(As if he could’ve made it to the front of the lunch line without getting shoved to the floor, Dave thinks, he’s seen too many times dark hair and awkward long limbs sprawled on the dirty cafeteria, and Egbert the asshole just gets up and smiles and says something nice and Dave just wants to punch the idiot who shoved him, punch the lunch lady, punch the crowd, punch the whole fucking school-)

John’s legs are laid out in butterfly position, as relaxed and comfortable as he’d be sitting down to watch TV. He’s wearing three sweaters that wouldn’t fit in his backpack, and for the last ten minutes he’s been nodding gently. For five minutes his breath has been getting slower, easier, and for two minutes and forty-six seconds (Dave hasn’t been counting at all) he’s been lying against Dave’s side.

Dave sneaks a glance at John’s face. His mouth has gone slack in the kind of frown he’d never wear if he were awake, and Dave’s mouth twists in response. There are more bruises under John’s sweaters than one.

Dave squeezes the tickets tighter with his right hand and loops his other arm around John’s shoulder, his fingers hanging over John’s chest in a gently curled fist. John sighs, his breath coming in half-snores and slow exhales, his hands hanging over his backpack. The knuckles of Dave’s right hand brush against the hole in the knee of John’s pants, and his skin is warm.

The bus isn’t coming. Dave wonders if it’s ever going to come, if with a hiss and a jolt of tires they’ll ever be able to feel the ground rolling out from underneath their bodies, if they’ll ever be able to press their noses to the cold window and see the world peeling away like bad glue on an envelope, if they’ll ever be able to escape this dead-end town, these half-assed little excuses for lives they’ve managed to scrape up for themselves, the words that sound like smiles and taste like rust, the long days and cold twilights and nights with Dave’s heart hanging heavy into his bedsheets, the bruises in places people can’t see.

And they’ll walk, if they have to. They’ll walk until the soles of their shoes are all worn down, until there are holes in their pants and their feet and their hearts big enough for the wind to blow through and wash clean. They’ll walk, or drive, or fly, until the world is small and growing smaller behind them and the sun is warm and golden ahead. They’ll go until they have to stop, and then they’ll go farther, as far as they can, until they reach the place where they can finally rest.

John gives a hiccuping sigh, and Dave’s arm tightens instinctively around him. The sharp corners of the bus tickets are poking into the soft parts of his palm, and John is heavy against his side.

(And that isn’t enough. It never will be.)

Dave’s thumb brushes against the bare skin above John’s collar. Maybe the bus is coming.

(Maybe it’s enough for now.)


End file.
